Stay With Me
by katethewriter
Summary: Katniss has lost her will to live, she's being consumed by loss and grief. She has spent weeks in District 12, and doesn't see any light at the end of the tunnel. Then one day someone walked back into her life and became that light once again. Post-Mockingjay, short one-shot.


**Hello! This is my second fanfic and first one-shot. I got inspired to write this through a song, and originally intended for it to be a song-fic. But then I got swept up in my writing and the way it turned out no longer fit the song at all. If you're interested, the song is Let It Go by Dragonette. **

**The fic is short and not entirely sweet, but I hope you'll read & review all the same. I love to hear your thoughts! Thank you!**

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I was like a piece of paper that had been folded up so many times and stuffed into a pocket that the creases were just a permanent part of what was supposed to be written; the words blurred along the runs of creasing, the edges and corners all stained blue from the rubbing of indigo dye. I had withdrawn again, into my own cubby of solitude; my own black hole where I could neither be bothered nor bother anyone else. My life started out as this big beautiful boulder on the beach, an integral part of the landscape. And slowly, the crashing waves had reduced me to nothing but a grain of sand. A grain of sand that was inextricably tethered to the shoreline, but it just wanted to be swept away by the retreating tides.

I really wanted to care about everything going on around me, wanted to return to the land of the awake, to the life that continued on without me. But it was so exhausting to want to care, so much so that I couldn't bring myself to care about caring anymore. I was waiting for my figurative black hole to become a literal one, and swallow me up. I was already halfway there: my bone-thin arms were coiled tightly around my balled up legs, my knees cushioning my angular chin. My hair was dead and choppy and hung loosely, cascading down my back in waves of itchy disappointment. I didn't even have the energy to braid it properly.

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I hadn't called Dr. Aurelius in weeks. At least I assumed it was weeks. I had lost all sense of time: the windows were all drawn closed, as were the curtains. I slept most of the day, and when I wasn't sleeping I was curled up as I am now, wishing for nothing but the satisfaction that it would be to disappear.

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Greasy Sae and her granddaughter continued to show up twice a day, but only force-fed me every couple days. The rest of the time she let me go on as I wished. She fed me enough to keep me alive, she didn't try to fatten me up, to strengthen me, to make me beautiful again. I couldn't tell if I resented her or loved her for this.

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My days stretched on slowly. I passed my time by imagining that maybe as each day went by I became less and less human. It seemed like an excellent way to go on, for I don't see why anyone would want to be human anyways. Thinking about this however, sparked thoughts and feelings about the past, which violated the code of conduct with which I went about in my life: never indulge in anything that isn't entirely necessary, and do not think about the past. Generally if I followed these rules I was successful in taking up little space and little energy. However, when thoughts of the past emerged it was difficult to push them back down again.

I hate to think of the dead, because it is like tricking my brain into thinking they still exist. If I am thinking of them, then they are not totally gone. But that is a cruel and evil thing to do, for if I let myself believe they are not gone, then I am responsible for keeping them here. And I am not fit to be responsible for anything. I don't dare think of them by name, for if they just remain nameless ghosts in my past then it's easier to ignore them. However, tonight I have no such luck in keeping the terrors at bay. Dozens f names flash before my eyes, aces and words and voices and laughter. They are all swimming in and out of my vision and I feel the white hot tears begin to pour down my cheeks. I hear my father's signing, see Rue's nimble dancing through the trees.I can feel Boggs's chuckles of laughter echoing through his chest, see Madge's delicate fingers running along the keys of the piano. I see the smile lighting up Cinna's gold-lined eyes, and feel the moss from Mags in my fingertips. I see Finnick's nimble fingers as he ties and re-ties all the knots he had shown me. I see his smile and hear the crunch of the sugarcubes under his teeth. He was so beautiful, as is his son. The last person to surface is Prim. I see her on her first day of school, her yellow hair fanning out down her back, as she practically jumped with excitement. I see Prim grooming Buttercup and picking Dandelions to feed to her goat. I see Prim on her first reaping day, terror written all over her face, but her hand clasped firmly in mine on the walk to the square. I see Prim's face as she healed Gale's back, her blue eyes set in determination. I see her in 13, holding my hand as I recover, and smiling at me in my small victories. I see her as she held my hand and told me that she wasn't a child anymore, and I see her as I finally believed it. She was one of the toughest, bravest, most good-natured people in this world. And then I see her as she was taken out of it, her screams piercing the air, her skin going up in flame, her hair singing and black. I will the images to go away, and they won't. So I shot my eyes further, and I dig my teeth into my bottom lip, the copper-y taste of it keeping me grounded through all the pain.

I am vaguely aware that the front door is open, but I don't care. The only person who ever visits is Greasy Sae, and she won't bother me unless she expressly needs to. So when I feel the strange sensation of another human's skin resting on my own, it is enough of a surprise to rouse me from my limbo sleep. I feel so fatigued, the siren song of sleep still nestled deep in my bones. My muscles are too achy for me to even open my eyes, let alone lift my head. But as the seconds tick by, my senses awaken more and more. The skin on my hand is not the wrinkled, sagging skin of Greasy Sae, nor is it the soft delicate touch of her granddaughter. This skin is warm, it is rough from what feels like scars and burns. It is not in any way smooth, but it is endearingly soft and comfortable resting their on my own. The feel of this skin is comforting and familiar. This realization is what motivates me to finally lift my head up and stare the owner of this warm skin in the eyes. At first all I see is a blur of blond hair and strong jaw. And then, as if it is the adjusting lens on a camera, my vision spins into focus. Peeta is here. Peeta is standing in my living room, next to my long dead fire. I am lost in the immense pools of blue that are his eyes. The hairs on my forearms are raised, and goosebumps litter my body. My mind is slowly registering the fact that it is cold. I look to my long-dead fireplace, wishing I had the strength to rekindle it. Looking out through the open front door, I see a dark sky littered with thousands of stars bursting with white-hot energy. I envy them.

I look back to Peeta's sculpted face, wondering if this is all a dream. His mouth is moving fast, saying something I don't understand. My eyebrows knit in confusion. He looks worried, or scared. I want to know what he is saying. I concentrate on his words, trying to make sense of them, but I can't hear him over the screams. As if a dam has broken in my ears, I suddenly hear all of the sounds around me. Terrible, terrible screaming. Horrid wailing and shrieking. I spend my energy by locking my hands up over my ears, willing the sounds to go away. The screams break through the barrier of my hands, filling every nook and cranny in the room. I try to figure out what is going on, what is Peeta saying? I can't hear anything past the screams. Where are the screams coming from? I want to close my eyes, to shut everything out again, but I am too lost in Peeta's eyes to close mine. It takes me a long hellish minute to realize that the screams are coming from my own mouth. I concentrate on making them stop, focusing everything I have into stopping the screams so that I can hear Peeta's voice. I feel sweat begin to accumulate on my brow. I have not possessed any power over my own body in weeks. Very abruptly the screams stop, and I watch Peeta's face soften a little, relief evident in the smile lines by his eyes.

"Katniss, I heard you screaming, and I thought you were in trouble. I thought you were in trouble, oh god-" his voice tightens, but he continues. "I'm so sorry I barged in, I just I needed to know that you were okay. I couldn't sleep from the nightmares anyway, I just couldn't hear your screams anymore, I thought I would die." I look up at him and push a mile onto my face. It is hard to muster, but it is genuine.

He tentatively whispers my name in the form of a question. It sounds beautiful on his lips.

I try to respond, but all I get for my efforts is a pitiful croak. I am exhausted from the past few minutes, and all I can bring myself to do is reach out my arms and put them around his neck. He returns the gesture, and we sit on my couch, holding eachother for several long minutes. I am acutely aware of the fact that I have not showered since the day I left the capitol, that my hair is matted and tangled and practically in dreadlocks, that my fingernails resemble the claws of an animal, that I'm skinny and frail and my skin is sallow and yellow and I look worse than the Morphlings did in the quarter quell. But I do not let those things ruin the moment with Peeta. Instead I sit in his arms, and I silently weep. I had not been told of his return to District Twelve. I had assumed that like everyone else in my life, he had abandoned me and moved on to a better life in a better district. I couldn't blame anyone for what they did. They all deserved much, much better than me; Peeta most of all. But I couldn't express how much better my life now seemed, having the boy with the bread back in it.

After clearing my throat several painful times, I open my mouth. Peeta pulls away and looks at me, eyes searching my face. I wanted to perform some epic monologue, make sure he knew exactly how I felt, how I needed him in my life, how he was my anchor tying me to this crushing, painful, heart-breakingly beautiful world. I wanted him to know that I had cared for him since those first games,and had just not been able to admit it to myself. I wanted him to know that I had wept over him and gone off the deep end from losing him, but time after time, he threw out a rope and pulled me back up into the world of the sane. I wanted him to know that there was nothing in this world more beautiful to me than the blue of his eyes, the quirk of his smile, the way his tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth when he was concentrated. I wanted him to know that I could never hope to deserve him, that I could live a thousand lifetimes and never deserve him. But I wanted him to know that I would live a thousand lifetimes trying. I wanted to tell him that I love him, for I know now that I do. However, I have no way with words. And so all I can do to try and convey all that I want him to hear is press my lips to his. I put forward all of what I feel and have ever felt for Peeta. Upon pulling back, all I see is confusion in Peeta's eyes, so I burrow my body into his broad chest, and he draws me in. I want him to know how I feel. I want to tell him.

But in my exhaustion, all I have the power to say is, "Stay with me."

It is still hoarse and barely comprehensible. The wind pulls the front door closed with a slam, and I hear Peeta's heartbeat thudding in his chest. It is faster than it used to be during those nights on the train, but in no way is it any less comforting. For the first time in many weeks, I feel alive. And this feeling, this feeling that I had been missing so long I had begun to forget it, this feeling is so powerful and so exhilarating that it makes me want to live on just to feel this way. I remove my hands from their spot around Peeta's neck and furl them into the fabric of his shirt. It makes me think that maybe if I hold on tight enough, Peeta will never leave. Because I know that if he leaves my life for even one more minute, it will be useless all over again. He is silent so long, that I begin to think he has forgotten that I said anything at all. I feel his weight shift all around me, and he begins to stand, his prosthetic squeaking under the shift of his weight.

I feel the heavy, hollow, dead feeling beginning to re-emerge in my chest. It starts in my heart and fans out until I am numb again. I let go of Peeta's shirt, and turn in on myself once more.

I chastise myself for ever being so stupid as to thinking he still cared. I knew I was a waste of space, but the second he walked through the door, I thought- I thought maybe he didn't think so.

The tears come back, strong and fast, and I begin rocking myself back and forth. My shirt is soaked through in seconds, and despite my efforts to keep them at bay, heaving sobs begin to fill the room.

That's when I feel his strong hands on my arms again, his broad chest pressed against my shoulder, squeezing me in as though he is trying to physically absorb my pain. He is cooing gentle words into my ear, his hands running up and down my arms, rubbing away the goosebumps. His arms leave mine only for a moment so that he can drape a blanket over the both of us. _That's why he had gotten up,_ I tell myself, _he was grabbing a blanket from the other room. _A wave of immense relief washes over me.

He leans his head down and kisses the top of mine tenderly.

He whispers it into my ear, the one word I needed to hear more than I needed anything else in the world. The word that spells away all my worries and my doubts, the word that brings a tender smile to my lips and a flutter to my heart.

"_Always_."

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**Please don't forget to review and let me know how I can improve my writing in the future!**


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